


Test Subject E

by Orockthro



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dark, Drugged Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, THRUSH POV, Unconscious Sex, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/pseuds/Orockthro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the agent bare before him on the futon, sprawled haphazardly on his back from the undressing of him and laid so open and perfect, Loric loses himself slightly. It’s natural, of course, for scientists to become invested in their work. There’s no reason to be ashamed, and certainly no reason to stop himself. True science is created by men who dare. </p>
<p>
  <i>(Or, a THRUSH experiment from the POV of the THRUSH scientist himself.)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Test Subject E

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Man of Science](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828477) by [Donna_Immaculata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata). 



> Please heed the warnings/tags! This is a way different sort of fic from what I usually write!
> 
> Extra super-duper thanks to Sarcasticsra for the beta and the handholding as I stumble into the land of unexpected kink.

“Fuck! You idiot. I can’t believe you gave him too much. You’re supposed to be the expert!”

Loric smiles at Kissinger’s obvious ire. The man is ostensibly Loric’s boss and the highest ranking THRUSH member on site, but Loric refuses submit to men who are so clearly of a lower intellectual caliber.

An UNCLE agent, a highly sought after one, although Loric has never bothered to study their rank and file and doesn’t know his name, hangs limply between two of Kissinger’s men. He’s dressed in an undershirt and boxers, his clothes torn away in their attempt to find the microfilm THRUSH Central is after. But the drug now pulsing through his veins is one of Loric’s design, not Central’s. It’s a genius compilation of an disinhibitor and a paralytic, he’s not too modest to admit. Administered properly, it can have any number of desired effects on a body, all of them exquisite. Kissinger’s interest in it is as a truth serum, but Kissinger has always been so short-sighted about these things.

“Toxins are a delicate science, and I informed you that this one is still experimental.” Loric licks his lips as one of the men drags the agent’s head up by his blond hair and slaps him across the face to no visible effect. “Take him back to my lab. I’ll ensure he’s able to answer your questions by tomorrow. Unless you have other plans?”

Kissinger fumes. The opportunity to rankle his feathers is one of Loric’s true joys in this world, along with other... opportunities. THRUSH is an unequaled employer in both of those regards.

“Fine. But he’d better be up to snuff, Loric, or I’ll have your hide.”

“Doctor.”

“What?”

“It’s Doctor Loric.” Kissinger’s face turns red, snaps his fingers, and the two men hoist their charge through the cell’s door and into the hallway.

They deposit him in Loric’s lab, as requested, on the futon he keeps in the corner for his own use when experiments cannot be abandoned and his own physical needs must be met. Exhaustion is such a dreary thing, but chemicals can only force a body so far.

“You sure you want him there, doc? There’s no restraints.”

Loric smiles once again. “I know my dosages. There’s no need for barbarism when chemistry is so much cleaner. I will be perfectly safe.”

Loric has learned a great many things working for THRUSH. Foremost is the power of words and suggestion. They are nearly as effective as chemistry. The man nods solemnly and makes sure to reiterate the instructions for the alarm button Loric can press if things go south before leaving the lab and closing the door firmly behind him.

“Good,” Loric says when he is alone with the man. “We will be undisturbed now.” The agent lays where he was deposited, half on his side and with arms twisted and limp. “You can stop your ruse now. I know full well that you are conscious.”

Blue eyes blink open, muzzy but intense all the same, an impossible juxtaposition that makes Loric’s stomach leap in excitement.

“I know precisely what dose I gave you, and I know that in a few minutes you will be capable of answering whatever questions our dear friend Mr. Kissinger would ask of you. And that you would answer those questions with enthusiasm despite yourself.”

The man struggles upright on trembling arms, desperation taking hold and twisting his face into a stony mask of concentration. Loric lets him have his hope of freedom. He runs a hand over a vial of his drug, yet unnamed, and slips a cold syringe of it into his pocket. When he turns back, the man is somehow on his feet, swaying towards the door. Truly, he is a remarkable specimen. His usual subjects are far less intact when Kissinger is through with them.

He wobbles as Loric steps closer, head lolling as he tries to take a step towards the door.

“But you see,” Loric says quietly, because there is no need to shout in such an intimate space as his lab, “I have no care whatsoever about UNCLE nor your secrets. Kissinger has deprived me too long. Good science requires good subjects. And you,” he says as the man begins falter on his feet, “are pristine.”

He catches the man under the arms as he slips, his body giving way to the vestiges of Loric’s drug still coursing through his veins, and he relishes the warm weight of him as he slumps against his chest.

It’s easy to lay him back down on the futon, gently, and arrange his head so he won’t crick his neck. His hand lingers on the exposed ridge of his collarbone, and he enjoys the shiver it sends through the man. Few men would be as generous and tender as Loric with an UNCLE agent. He considers it one of his best qualities. The task of struggling to his feet has sapped the man’s strength, and he lays boneless under his hands, but Loric’s estimation of the drug was correct. He stares up at him, conscious and intelligent and growing more aware with every second, and Loric’s heart flutters.

He takes one of the man’s hands, turns it, and strokes the palm until the lax fingers open. The skin is soft and calloused all at once, and he runs a thumb over the wrist, down the delicate skin of the inner forearm, until he brushes the crease of the elbow.

“If you please,” he says, retrieving the syringe from his pocket, “when this is all over, tell me everything you remember, everything you feel.”

The man glares, says nothing, and tries uselessly to roll away. It takes hardly any pressure to hold him in place. “Not for me, you understand,” Loric tries to reason. “For science.” It’s no matter. In the end, the man will tell him anything Loric desires. That’s the power of his drug. He wastes no more time with dialogue. He cups the elbow, finds a suitable vein, and presses the tip of the needle against the exposed skin. He’s measured this dose carefully, taking into account the subject’s weight, probable metabolic rate, and current level of incapacitation. He only uses half the syringe’s contents, depressing the plunger to the exact level desired.

The effect is immediate. The man’s respiration increases, coming in fast pants as the drug starts to slide into his bloodstream. His back arches up off the bed even as Loric pulls the needle from his arm, and he writhes, one last desperate attempt to escape. A useless attempt, but one Loric can respect. It is in his nature to fight, and it is in Loric’s to undo him. The man struggles, his bare feet shoving against the futon in an attempt to once again rise, and his hands flex weakly up against Loric’s chest as if to fight him off, but both efforts are helpless and do nothing other than shift his limbs.

The drug acts quickly, and Loric watches, rapt, as the struggles quiet, as the trembling kicks give way to spasmodic twitches, and as his hands fall away from Loric’s chest to sprawl off the futon onto the floor. Loric continues to watch, kneeling beside him and over him, as the panting respirations of a fighting man fall away into the slow, deep ones of a man pulled under by beautiful, efficient chemistry.

He takes the man’s hand in his own again, and strokes it until the trembling subsides completely. It only takes a few minutes.

The trembling now stopped and the body boneless, he goes about carefully undressing him. Kissinger and his men left his undergarments on for modesty’s sake, but Loric has none of that useless attention to society’s rules. A body studied must be studied in its entirety. The undershirt he removes first, dragging the thin cotton material up over his belly until it bunches at his ribs. It’s a struggle to get it over his head and arms; the body’s limpness is an unexpected hindrance. But Loric finds himself enjoying the struggle of bending each yielding arm at the shoulder, at the elbow, at the wrist, feeling the utter lack of resistance as he maneuvers him bare.

The boxers are a simpler task, but one that requires him to lift the man’s hips in his hands as he slides the elastic down over his buttocks and across his thighs. He finds his fingers lingering on the soft skin between his thigh and waist, the crease of lean muscle, and the limp cock between his legs. He is, after all, a pristine male specimen. It’s only right to examine him fully. The man remains pliant and senseless and warm under his hand.

With the man bare before him on the futon, sprawled haphazardly on his back from the undressing of him and laid so open and perfect, Loric loses himself slightly. It’s natural, of course, for scientists to become invested in their work. There’s no reason to be ashamed, and certainly no reason to stop himself. True science is created by men who dare.

Loric, on his knees at the edge of the futon, rolls the man’s head in his hands until the face, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, stares up at him. This is the true power of his drug. The man, while utterly incapacitated, retains the smallest measure of awareness. The eyes flutter and roll, unable to focus on anything for more than the barest of seconds. Loric strokes the forehead smooth and holds open one eye with a thumb and forefinger, pleased by the pupillary reaction. He lets go, and the eye falls half-lidded once more, listless and tantalizing, and Loric spends several long moments stroking the soft hair and face, watching those blue eyes dilate.

As Loric presses a finger to the man’s neck to take his pulse, a low, desperate moan seeps out of the agent. Loric’s own heart rate picks up. It’s a beautiful sound, that moan. With one hand still at his neck, he brings the other to the parted lips, runs a finger softly across them until the part widens and, without thinking, he dips a finger into his mouth.

The man moans again, and Loric feels it reverberate around his finger, hot and slick and soft, and he shudders slightly. He pulls his finger out, traces the lips again until they open wider, leaving a slick trail of saliva behind, before exploring the depths again with two fingers this time. He strokes the tongue, curious, and is shocked when the man closes his mouth around the fingers, the heat of it sending shivers up through his arm. It must be some primal suckling instinct, Loric theorizes, and the sudden sensation of the man’s lips tight around the base of his fingers is absolute and rhythmic, and coupled with the vibrations of his unconscious moans, it is utterly arousing. The head rolls under him to accommodate the angle of his hand, and Loric allows himself to be drawn in by the experiment. He stares into the unfocused eyes as he slowly, methodically, pulls his fingers out, traces the teeth with the pad of his thumb, and then plunges two fingers back in again. He feels his own groin heat and begin to fill at the action. Purely biological. His other hand, still poised at the man’s carotid artery, detects a similar response in his pulse.

Leaning over the man like this, he can feel the heat of him radiating up. He reluctantly removes his fingers, and the reddened lips gasp at the loss. Following some unexplainable curiosity, Loric presses the hand already around the carotid artery down hard, until the beat of the pulse against his fingers is thundering, and his hand closes over the man’s neck completely. Gently, of course. Loric is no animal. He’s certainly more civilized than Kissinger’s men would be. No doubt left in their care the man would be beaten half to death by now.

The body, the man, shudders at the loss of air. He lets a little in; he doesn’t have any desire to do the man harm, that would not serve science in any form. The chest, bare now and all the easier to see movement from, bucks slightly as the form tries to draw in oxygen that is being expertly denied to him. He keeps the pressure on the throat light enough to bruise, not crush, not kill, and traces the lines of his face as the effects begin to set in.

This level of experimentation is only appropriate, of course. It’s important to determine the subject’s level of stupor, to ensure that certain stimuli will not bring the man out of his state and back into awareness. It is one thing to determine that on paper, but all good scientists must test, and test often, and Loric was never one to run from his scientific responsibility.

The man begins to flush, his lips paling from rosy to ashen, and the eyes which previously roved so delicately, roll up until only two half moons of white stare up at Loric. Loric’s groin, which pulsed at the wet heat around his fingers only moments ago, rushes hot again at the sight of his drug’s power, of his own physical power, too.

Fascinatingly, the man appears to be experiencing something similar. It’s a documented phenomenon, of course, the lust of choked men. He’s read about it, although he’s never witnessed it. He keeps his hand against the soft, hot skin of the man’s throat and slides his other hand down the still, oxygen deprived chest, down the tight stomach, and lower until his fingers brush against the curls of hair between his legs.

Not entirely unexpected, the stimulus is resulting in a higher level of reaction than would have occurred had the drug been left to do its job undisturbed. The legs and arms, which previously were limp where Loric let them fall, begin to twitch once more, thrusting into the air his lungs are denied. It’s not consciousness returning, Loric is sure of that as he stares into the fluttering eyes and lax face. Simply a body’s desperation made manifest. Somehow that is even more arousing, knowing that such a purely physical response is possible without connection to the mind.

The cock twitches in time with his quickening pulse as Loric’s hand finds it, and it’s quickly darkening and filling, taking on an energetic life that’s neatly juxtaposed with the life leaching out of the agent’s face. Reminding himself consciously that he must take care not to lose his subject, he relaxes the hand around his throat for a calculated second, allows the chest to fill with air, before squeezing tight once more and beginning the cycle anew.

It’s hypnotizing, and Loric has difficulty in knowing where to keep his attention. The desperate, helpless kicking of the feet is as equally appealing as the engorging cock, which is tied in turn with the open lips, still wet from Loric’s exploration, and the sightless eyes.

In the end, the agent makes the decision for him. As the seconds tick by the cock grows to its full length and girth, and Loric’s desperation is matched by the man under him. Hips join the legs in bucking and thrusting weakly. Just like the mouth that took his fingers so sweetly, this is merely a physical condition, brought about by Loric’s own actions. Loric’s own breathing hitches at the thought, and as his own needs grow, the man’s movements do too. The hips find a rhythm and push up against Loric’s hand, and it’s only natural for his hand to slide around the cock and grasp it in a grip that mirrors the grip on the man’s throat. He flushes at the symmetry of it, and squeezes both, strokes both. He explores the length of the cock, reaches behind to grasp at his balls and feel the thundering pulse and the heat, all the while carefully letting in just enough air into the lungs to keep his lips ashen, not blue, his mouth gasping, not silent.

He comes quickly, violently, and Loric is reluctant to let go of him, even as his own cock throbs and yearns to be touched. He keeps hold as the cock deflates, strokes it as it comes to rest against his thigh, and runs his semen-slick hand across the man’s lips and at the red marks around the man’s neck. They’ll purple later, he has no doubt. For now, the color matches his cock, and he dips his head until his lips brush against the man’s lax ones. He pants, the gift of oxygen rushing into him, and Loric feels every puff against his face as he reaches his hand into his pants and brings himself to completion. The heat of the man is residual in his palm, and he holds the agent by the neck once more as he comes, shuddering and tasting the man’s drying cum on his lips.

Experiments are always enlightening. He’s pleased his drug has kept the man so insensate during the ordeal. The heightened unconscious movements brought on by the increased heart rate have dissipated, and he’s once more limp on the futon, flushed and spent.

Loric goes about cleaning him, gently wiping the body down with a damp cloth until all traces of the experiment are removed. He cleans the neck and face, too, lest the man find evidence of Loric’s indiscretion. It’s an intimate thing to do, to run a soft cloth over a man’s open lips and under his jaw, to run a thumb over the eyebrows and peer once more into the half-lidded, rolling eyes and wonder what, if anything, he will remember. It is more intimate than a simple stimulus experiment. Loric finds himself oddly taken by the agent. Perhaps he will find a way to engineer further experimentation before Central calls him back.

For now, however, he is nearly out of time. The drug will be wearing off soon, and Kissinger will wish for his subject to be conscious and ready to blurt UNCLE secrets.

Reluctantly, he dresses him back in his undershirt and boxers, and clasps his wrists in crude handcuffs. He dislikes physical restraints, but it’s done only just in time; the man is waking already.

He remains by his side as the process occurs, twitching fingers giving rise to blinking eyes, curious to see what the agent can recall, if anything. He waits, notebook in hand, as the man blinks his no-doubt dried out dyes and takes stock of his situation. “Was there numbness of the mouth and extremities? How was your vision?”

“I--” the man starts weakly, and then motions Loric closer, the handcuffs clanging at the movement. It’s understandable; perhaps his experimentation strained the vocal chords. Loric leans down until his head is very near the man’s mouth, and he’s reminded of the warmth there.

“Yes?” he says. And it’s perhaps because he’s lost in the curiosity of it, or perhaps because he was never a soldier, that he does neither expect nor see the attack. He only feels the prick belatedly as the needle slips out from his neck.

Loric slides to the floor. He’d only used half the syringe when dosing the agent, and lost track of the needle in the events afterword. Clumsy.

He watches, face half turned to the floor and arms already twitching, as the man picks the lock of his cuffs and carefully pulls himself to his feet. He expects the man to leave immediately, but the bare feet pad towards him, not away, and he feels himself being tipped onto his back.

“You wanted to know how it felt, doctor.” The voice is raw and damaged and hateful. “Who am I to deny science.”

The voice disappears, and Loric is left staring at the ceiling as his vision begins to gray. He tries to roll his head to watch the agent leave, but he can’t. He tries to laugh, but his lungs refuse to do anything but breathe in and out slowly. He can feel the drug, cold and enveloping, as it slides into him, sapping everything but his mind, and he smiles.


End file.
